


Oh Sebastian I'm So Disappointed in You

by Apherion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apherion/pseuds/Apherion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian's learning how to cope with Jim's decision after the fall. But it's not easy going back to normal when the one you love isn't there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Sebastian I'm So Disappointed in You

**Author's Note:**

> (Inspired by the tumblr account 'unposted-letters-to-moriarty' from their post: "Sometimes all I hear is your voice. 'Oh, Sebastian, I'm so disappointed in you.' And it's the only thing that makes me put the gun down. S.M.") I posted this on my tumblr and decided to upload it here for the rest of the community who isn't on tumblr.

It’s been months. Life has gone on. But you aren’t here anymore. You don’t bark orders at me. You don’t yell at me. You don’t plot to steal from the wealthiest in the world. You don’t do any of that. You just…lie there. And I’m forced to go to your… _our_ flat when visiting hours are over.

I know that my job isn’t over. But wasn’t my first priority you? I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t bear knowing that you might have woken up without me by your side. I’m your right hand man. I’m even your left.

No, I’m _yours_.

There are nights I wake in a panic, thinking that you’ve woken up, screaming for me. I run to the hospital, but the nurses give me pitying looks, shaking their heads. I want to kill them, but they are good to you, to us. So I return to the flat and watch telly for the rest of the evening in your chair.

There are other nights where I contemplate escapes. Telling the doctors to take you off of support, and then following you, but I only ever get so close. You always called it the coward’s way out, and I hear your scathing voice. I put the safety back on the gun, and stow it under my pillow for another day.

I met John Watson, personally, after one of those suicidal nights. He came in one day, cursing you a blue streak, but then he saw me. I didn’t say a word, but he sank into the other chair. We stared at each other for a long moment before he said,

“You, too, huh?” I didn’t need to nod, or need him to explain. He reaches inside his jacket, handing me a business card that had creases all over it. It was a therapists’ number. I assume his therapist. I take it, understanding for once that he and I are the same. A crack-shot army doctor and an ex-colonel sniper than cannot miss, and both fell in love with their partners.

“She helps. I…” his voice cracked, looking at me with the same sorrow I felt every waking moment. He closed his mouth and shook his head, turning to leave.

I asked him out for coffee, and we meet up every Thursday in a café that’s not even one hundred meters from the hospital.

I always come back to you after those Thursdays feeling a bit happier. I’ve even told you about them. I get the courage to hold your hand even. You would be so pissed if you woke up with my larger hands holding your frail ones.

I started taking on little jobs here and there. Nothing too far away because I still have to see you every day, even if it’s just to kiss your forehead—relaxed as if you were sleeping. You would hate me for being so cavalier with my affections. I even said ‘I love you’ when my job forced me away for longer than three days.

You were crashing when I returned.

I lost my composure, and you would have been laughing at how many doctors and nurses I grabbed to attend to you. They had to call security to keep me from getting in their way.

“Just save him, please!” I cried in the waiting room because I didn’t know what else I could do.

I don’t leave your side for the next month.

The doctors keep telling me that your case is rare. They don’t know if you’ll wake up today or in the next five years. They tell me to go home, rest, and get out more. They threaten that they’ll put me in a bed. I always give them a look you would be proud to see.

I can’t believe two years have gone by, and the only sun I get is when I’m walking between our flat and this hospital. I’ve lost several pounds, but I look nothing compared to your atrophied body. You look so fragile on the hospital bed, and I hold your hand in mine. I kiss it repeatedly. I lean over you, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, lastly your lips.

You smell like the antiseptic used at the hospital, but I don’t care and I kiss you again. I’ve convinced myself that if I do this enough, you might just wake to tell me to knock it off. But you don’t.

“The brain takes the longest to heal,” is the only kind of comfort the doctors can give me. I break down and call the therapist John Watson sees.

She tells me everything that I knew she would. She told me to stop seeing you, to go back to working in the flower shop (because that’s where I told her I worked). She told me to make my visits to you a treat to myself at the end of the week so I have something to look forward to. But I know as I tell her I will try, that I won’t.

You could wake up any day.

I sat in my chair, recounting stories I’ve told you a million times by now, and I give up halfway through them. I decide to tell you about my childhood because it’s the only thing that’s not on record and it’s the only thing I’ve never told you about. I hold your hand as I tell you about my abusive father and how he nearly killed Mum and me. I told you I ran away at twelve, and I assume my mum’s been beaten to death. My father’s either in jail or in the ground, too.

I swear I feel your hand twitch.

I repeat the story, and your hand flexes within mine. I get to my feet so fast I nearly upset my chair. I bend over you, my lips at your ear. I whisper that I miss you, that I need you. I call you ‘sweetheart’, knowing how much you hate that pet name. I even feel tears in my eyes as I try to coax you from your coma.

“You’re…an idiot,” you rasped, voice strained from disuse. “You…should have…let me…die. I’m…useless.” Your words were dark for someone that had almost killed themselves but survived. “I can barely see…I’m not sure…if I can move…my legs,” you croaked. I shake my head, not caring. The doctors said you had damaged your occipital lobe and cerebellum, that you may not have all of your motor functions or sight. But you were awake. And nothing else mattered.

I kissed you, and you finally kissed me back.

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing I can say is that with my experience in learning the human brain, the temporal lobe (where the memory is stored) would not have been affected by the gunshot wound Moriarty gave himself. This fic was made to produce a realistic, brain-damaged Jim. I might have more to add later, but at the moment, this fic is complete.


End file.
